


vicissitude

by ohirareon



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Character Study, Gen, do non-hostile actions count as friendship, spoilers for ch. 188
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-06-07
Packaged: 2018-07-12 20:26:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7121350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohirareon/pseuds/ohirareon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he’s walking out of the gym, Kei hears one of the duo half-whisper, “He’s got the capability; someone’s just got to get him to try.” </p><p>“What do ya think it’s gonna take to fire him up?”</p><p>“A goddamned miracle -- who knows?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	vicissitude

**Author's Note:**

> inspiration from these wonderful fics: miracle boy wakatoshi and sunburst
> 
> a huge thank you to becky and betsy for:  
> a. beta-ing  
> b. being huge inspirations for me to try writing  
> c. helping me learn a lot

The Karasuno Volleyball Club files out of the Sendai City gym, feet heavy and dragging so hard it seems as if you’d find shallow lines in the concrete later. They’re unusually quiet; you can hear the thumps of gym bags against legs and the occasional soft sighs that they unanimously ignore. The atmosphere is despondent, and the mourning black of their uniforms feels ironically fitting in the moment. Nobody talks, and nobody, nobody mentions the last spike. Nobody mentions how they’re supposed to be in that gym right now, still on the court, but that instead, they’re heading back to the bus with aching muscles and watery eyes.

Kei’s muscles don’t ache. His thoughts are detached from the overbearing ‘what ifs’ bearing down around the team. _It’s a nice change,_ he inwardly sneers, _seeing Hinata so quiet._ As they pile into the bus, the air tastes bitter, and Kei swears the loss has nothing to do with it.

* * *

 A few weeks later, Kei pulls the carefully folded and semi-neglected permission slip from his binder and approaches his mother in her office. Her blonde hair is tucked behind her ear, pen in between her teeth as she types hurriedly. Hopefully she’ll just sign off without paying attention to the form, like usual when she’s working. 

“Okaa-san, please sign this permission slip,” Kei says and sets the paper down on her desk. Unlike usual, his mother stops typing, looks up, and proceeds to read over the entirety of the form, doing a double take at the “week-long opportunity for team improvement.” When she’s done, she looks up and gives Kei a wide grin, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“This’ll be a fun trip with your friends, won’t it?” she asks, clearly interested but trying not prod with too much enthusiasm.

“That’s relative, I suppose.”

Kei’s mother raises her eyebrow, and there’s a gleam in her eye. “Relative to what exactly?”

“Relative to what you consider _fun_ and _friends_.”

“Oh, I hardly think that you could spend over sixteen hours a week with someone and not find something in common with them.” She picks up the pen and signs her name in long, graceful strokes. “Have fun in Tokyo, Kei.”

* * *

Today has, frankly, sucked ass. He woke up at some god-forsaken hour of the morning only to play volleyball for eight god-forsaken hours surrounded by his god-forsaken teammates. Kei can barely stand the normal practice hours, and training camp is even longer with the same obnoxious, over-hyped people. Needless to say, he’s eager to go back to the room and sleep away the day’s hellfire.

Kei’s walking through the dusk down the dimly lit path to head back to his dorm when he hears, “Could you come block for us for a bit?”

He looks up to see the two captains of Nekoma and Fukurodani standing in the door of the gym, looking at him expectantly.

“I’m already done for today, so please excuse me,” Kei replies without a second thought, because why the hell would he spend _more_ time playing after a full day of mandatory volleyball? Apparently these two idiots, along Fukurodani’s vice captain, who is hanging back behind the duo and seems less of an idiot and more of a willing -- though God knows why -- participant, find eight grueling hours of practice matches unsatisfying.

They don’t let up though, and Kei is fine with ignoring them, a skill he’s honed to perfection, until the one with the god-awful bedhead -- although, granted, both of them have horrendous hair -- Kuroo, remarks that, as a middle blocker, he should be practicing blocking more. 

Kei grits his teeth in irritation as he realizes his own apathy has been pitted against him. He strides through the doorway, in-between the stunned duo, and into the gym.

“You wanted me to play, so let’s get this over with,” he says while pulling on his kneepads. The captains take their places in the gym, both watching Kei with interest. The two from Fukurodani, Bokuto and the ever-more-tolerable Akaashi, move into position to spike and toss.

Kei will never admit it out loud, but Bokuto is good. Over-enthusiastic as hell, yes, but he’s just slammed his seventh straight spike through Kei’s arms and into the floor. It’s raw and powerful and not something to brush off despite his childish nature.  
  
“Wow, he’s really kicking your ass,” Kuroo observes. Kei doesn’t deign to respond, and Kuroo joins him across the net from Bokuto.

Like clockwork, Akaashi sets and Bokuto is on a course for another kill - a course which is stopped short by Kuroo, who somehow appears from nowhere and engulfs the net. His arms barricade any path for Bokuto to slam his spike into the floor, and the ball falls to the ground on the Fukurodani side of the net.

“ _Damn!_ ” Bokuto curses. Kuroo relishes his victory with a pleased smirk from Kei’s left.

 “Y’know, your blocks sure are weak,” Bokuto proclaims, addressing Kei. “I mean, you’re good at reading part, but I was afraid I was gonna break your arm or something. Y’gotta block the ball with a BAM!” The spiker emphasizes by throwing his hands up.

 Kei can brush off the dimwitted teasing; his own tongue is sharp as a razor, constantly prodding at others’ delicate skin, so dealing with Bokuto is only a matter of retorting, “I’m still growing; soon I’ll be able to fend you off”. Bokuto opens and closes his mouth, void of an argument.

 Kuroo, however, isn’t as easily swayed.  
  
“Y’know, if you keep slacking off, that shorty will take all the good parts for himself. You play the same position, right?”  
  
The prospect of Kei falling behind to Hinata, who is (unfortunately) innately gifted in ways Kei cannot match, sticks to him with irritating accuracy.

Just then, a group of Kuroo’s own teammates arrive in the gym, which Kei gladly takes as an exit cue.

“It seems I’ve been relieved of duty,” he says, with a frigid grin. He strides past the squabbling teammates towards the door, relieved to finally be heading back towards his dorm.

As he’s walking out of the gym, Kei hears one of the duo half-whisper, “He’s got the capability; someone’s just got to get him to try.”

“What do ya think it’s gonna take to fire him up?”

“A goddamned miracle -- who knows?”

* * *

_What more do you need than pride?_

_I don’t know_ , Kei thinks.

He doesn’t have an inkling of an idea, not a fucking clue. He can’t answer Yamaguchi’s question, so he sets off to ask someone who can.

* * *

“Why would you go to such lengths for only a club?” he hears himself ask Bokuto, only to be met with another question in response.

“Say, Tsukishima-kun, do you enjoy playing volleyball?” Bokuto says, and, honestly, he doesn’t like it more than anything else.

“Not particularly, no.”

 “Isn’t that because you suck at it?” Bokuto asks, and _fuck this_ . He came here to figure out what the hell has this entire camp so devoted to an mediocre extracurricular, not to get dragged by some over-excitable man-child. But then Bokuto continues on about how he’s better than Kei, _as if that wasn’t obvious already_ , and just as Kei’s about to throw in the towel on the entire concept of volleyball Bokuto’s rambling starts making sense.

 “Still, if you experience _that moment_ , it’ll really get you hooked on volleyball.”

* * *

“Okay, so when you jump, well, first, you haven’t been jumping straight up with your full power; it counts every time, and you’ll get fabulous thighs like mine as a result,” Kuroo says. slapping his leg to demonstrate that, yes, his thighs are indeed _fabulous_. “Second, extend from your fingertips, not just your arms, and stiffen them outwards, not just up. Start with that, and you should be able to put a dent into how much room Owly over there has to spike. You’ve done it before -- I saw that play where Bokuto totally ran away from you,” he adds with a teasing grin, raising his voice a little so Bokuto can hear.

 “Hey!” Bokuto protests, “No using the new weapon against me!”

 “But isn’t that his job -- to block you? And he’ll get better if he’s practicing with one of the top five spikers of Japan, bro.”

 “Hell yeah, he will! Come at me, Tsukki!”

Kei does indeed “come at him”; he jumps using every bit of the strength in his legs and fully extends his arms, which feel like they might pop out of their sockets. It’s strange and uncomfortable and a hassle - but Bokuto’s spike hits his hands and drops unceremoniously to the floor, and much to Kei’s chagrin, the smile on Kuroo’s face only gets wider.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about!”

The next day and the days after, Kei heads back to gym three after practice, with a determination purely, _purely_ based on a need to wipe the satisfied grin off that Kuroo’s face.

* * *

The mass of ravenous volleyball players descend upon the end-of-training-camp barbecue with an enthusiasm nearly equal to their fervor on the court. 

Kei goes off to the side, by one of the outer grills. There’s no point in throwing himself at the center of the typhoon when there’s food over here. He places a few slices of meat onto his plate and finds a seat near a quieter alcove by a wall of the gym.

 The alcove stays quiet for a whole two minutes until Daichi, Kuroo, and Bokuto invade into his safe haven with cries of “eat some more, Tsukishima! You need some veggies and protein to get strong,” that strongly remind him of his pushy aunt who always packs extra tonkatsu in his luggage after their mandatory family reunion. It’s oddly endearing, in an overbearing and annoying and irritating sort of way.

“Just because you’re avoiding me, Tsukki, doesn’t mean you can avoid eating your vegetables! I can’t have my protégé blown away by the wind,” Kuroo hollers from the grills, where he’s gone back to get more food. Kei ignores him.

“Why did I step into that gym in the first place?” Kei sighs rhetorically to Akaashi next to him. His plate is purposefully empty of aforementioned vegetables.

“I suppose it’s because you wanted to play volleyball,” Akaashi replies.

“Perhaps,” Kei says, and they fall into a companionable silence, letting the barbecue’s noises (mainly Bokuto yelling and wildly gesticulating with Hinata if they’re both honest) fill the space where words would be. After a week adjusting to the chaos of the training camp, it’s easy for Kei to let the hubbub fade into the background. The sun is starting to sink towards the horizon, and Kei thinks he might just want to remember this past week. Despite the absurdity of flying falls and sprints up the god forsaken hill, it’s been oddly enjoyable watching Kageyama groggily functioning (if you could even call it that) at six am and remarkably entertaining observing Sugawara’s behavior before he’s had caffeine. Not to mention the four consecutive times Hinata fell on his face during flying falls -- that had been more than alright.

This is alright too -- just sitting with Akaashi and watching. Kei can do watching. He and Akaashi, and later Kenma, sit quietly as the pandemonium settles into a noisy but approachable mess.

Kei’s about to stand up to throw his plate away when Akaashi turns to the side and gives him a long look, the one typically reserved for when he’s analyzing the other team or trying to decide the best reaction to Bokuto’s moods. Then he says, “Your blocking has improved, Tsukishima-kun. I hope to see you at Nationals.”

Kei doesn’t really know what to think of that.

* * *

  _“You’d be able to stop Ushiwaka, wouldn’t you!?!”_

  _“Of course not,” Kei replies, “We’re talking about one of the top three aces in the country. Maybe by some fluke.”_

  _“If it’s impossible for you, then I’ll do it!” Hinata proclaims._

 Like hell he’s going to let someone 26cm shorter than him beat him in a competition of blocking.

* * *

 It’s not often that Kei willingly engages in conversations tinged with embarrassment, primed for humbling - granted, it's not often that Kei engages in anything. Except, apparently, now. He pulls out his phone, hits a long-avoided contact number, and breathes out. "Akiteru, I'll be joining you for practice."

The voice on the other side of the line jumpstarts. "Okay, I'll take you when I head out."

"Alright," Kei responds, and that's it. No long conversations. No prying into Kei’s apparent rekindled interest in volleyball. No complications.  
  
During times like these, Kei is especially grateful for Akiteru’s easygoing nature and sense to not pick at old scars. A few hours after getting home, he and Akiteru walk out the front door in tandem, as if they’d always gone to practice together, like this isn’t a new occurrence.

Upon arrival, he gets a few glances, but Akiteru cheerfully explains to his team that his brother is going to be training with them whenever he can, and then they’re admitting him into practice. It’s simple. “Hello, Tsukishima,” they say, and then leave him alone. (They call Akiteru by his first name; he’s always been the friendlier of them both.)

The team is overall nondescript -- no remarkable quick strikes, or geniuses, or too-cunning, over-excitable players, but experienced nonetheless. The community team seems unified and prepared, and Kei can work with this. As far as blocking training goes, it’ll do.

Everything happens as planned -- Kei blocks, jumps, and plays in a few three-on-threes. He stops to wipe sweat off his forehead and mildly shit-talks from the other side of the net. (These are adults he’s playing after all, but that doesn’t mean he’s one yet, so Kei indulges in what some would call “juvenile antics.”) It’s only when he’s jolted by the sound of nets being taken down that Kei realizes he had not looked at the clock once while practicing. It’s an odd, but not unwelcome, change.

On the drive home, Akiteru asks what he thought of practice.

“Adults have more power than teenagers, as expected.”

Akiteru turns his gaze away from the road to give Kei a smile. “Huh, anyone giving you trouble then?”

“Your middle blocker is annoying,” he deadpans, and with good reason, because that asshole was spiking through Kei’s blocks the entire time and was quite vocal about it.

“Ah, I guess it runs in the position,” Akiteru replies, and reaches across to ruffle his hair with the hand that isn’t still on the wheel. “I’ll see you next practice, then.”

It’s not a question, but Kei nods anyways, and the rest of the drive home is spent in silence.

Akiteru calls out as Tsukishima is walking through the patio door, “I’ll do anything I can to get you to the top, you know. Just say the word.”

* * *

Kei hates family reunions, and while the Kanto joint practices aren’t exactly family reunions, the way everyone acts makes them come pretty damn close. It’s the first time they’ve seen the Tokyo teams since training camp, and Hinata practically sprints into the gym, midair by the time Kei has passed through the double doors. In his peripheral vision, Kei sees Hinata bouncing back and forth from Kenma to Lev and Bokuto, the latter two responding with loud enthusiasm, the former with a quieter smile.

 _Thank God for Kenma,_ Kei thinks. He may be a troublesome, attentive opponent, but Kenma is also calm and levelheaded. It’s a nice contrast to the proverbial hell-fire brought upon the gym when Lev, Hinata, Inuoka, Bokuto, and Kuroo convene. Kei and Kenma exchange a look of understanding and sympathy; Kei has no doubts about the regular exhaustion Kenma must face under the stress of Bokuto-and-Kuroo.

Kei turns to put his belongings off to the sidelines in the vaguely distinct Karasuno pile of stuff, only to be immediately badgered by Bokuto, who has run away from his own drills to meet the rest of Karasuno. He locks target on Kei with his incessant _hey, hey, hey’_ s followed, predictably, by, “Up for blocking me today!?”

“Sure,” Kei says because, really, he could use the practice.

Bokuto’s arms stop flailing and Kei swears he’s actually still for once, stunned speechless. (He can’t tell if that’s good or disheartening.)

Kuroo, however, remains quite vocal.

“Tsukki, if you’re gonna play, stop standing there and get your ass on the court!”

Kei quickly falls into the rhythm of the game. Read, move, block, occasionally spike, repeat. It’s almost comforting now, the consistency of volleyball. Well, at least more consistent for him. Bokuto still has his rise-fall emotions, and it’d be pushing it to call Lev consistent or useful, for that matter. Regardless, it’s a chance to improve, and it’s surprisingly more than semi-bearable.

By the end of the practice, Kuroo mentions how Kei has bulked up a bit; his blocks are more stable against Bokuto’s whiplash power. Kei plays it off with a, “maybe you’re just getting weaker, Kuroo-san.” The bothersome middle blocker at community practice has heckled him for being “a scrawny beanpole of a high schooler,” and, well, if he’s finally eating a little more, Kuroo doesn’t need to know.

* * *

The official warm-up clock counts down as Karasuno joins together for something that’s half team meeting and half nervous energy. Daichi’s steady voice sets them a foundation: “We can win this together. As a team, we are capable and strong -- we have nothing to be afraid of.” He clasps the shoulders of the people nearest to him. “Let’s do this!”

The team disperses, and then they’re in rotation, ready for the referee to check their positions. On the other side of the net, Shiratorizawa is doing the same. The air is humming in expectancy.

The whistle shrieks. The cameras are rolling. They bow, and while Kei has never before felt anxious for a match, there’s a first time for everything.

_“We will now commence the final match of the nationwide High School Volleyball Championship, Miyagi Prefecture boys’ representative playoffs, between Karasuno High School and Shiratorizawa Academy.”_

* * *

Five points in, it’s clear that Ushijima’s spikes are both a force of nature and a declaration. They thunder with authority over the court and scream with unspoken challenge. Nothing, nobody, can quite match up with his spikes. Ushijima Wakatoshi has torn the earth up at its roots, and it’s a goddamned struggle to survive the chaos left in his wake.

“IT’S MIRACLE BOY WAKAAAATOSHI!!!” yells Shiratorizawa’s middle blocker, the erratic redheaded Guess Monster, after another spike slams past Kei’s arms into the floor.

 _The only thing that’s a miracle will be if I get out of this match intact,_ Kei thinks grimly, and repositions himself with the resolution that there’s no way in hell he’s letting Ushijima’s spikes past without a fight.

* * *

The _moment_ happens in the second set. Ushijima is methodically locking in on the gap in their wall - as he has the entire match, damn him. Admittedly, he has been commanding them - filling the court with a presence that is never ignored, not by Shiratorizawa, nor by Karasuno, nor by a single spectator. It’s so damn irritating, the way Kei is forced to play along to his every move, at Ushijima’s mercy, and he’s fucking sick of it.

And then Kei’s cashing in all of those frustrating one touches as he extends his arms right in front of the ball’s course and hopes that all of those community practices and training camp sessions and three-on-threes and fucking extra helpings of ramen kick in so that he can do his job and just block the damn ball, and God forbid this proves all for naught because Ushijima will be vigilant again and send Kei back to square one -- you do not pass Go; you do not collect 200 dollars-

It’s different this time -- the ball doesn’t skim his fingers or blast through his arms. Instead, the ball plummets on the other side of the net, and a deceptive calm engulfs Shiratorizawa. His head is fogged, arms a little bit numb, and a second later everything’s sharpening - his thoughts, the stinging on forearms and palms, the shouting behind him, and the sight of the ball dropping onto the floor on the other side of the net.

 

Finally.

 

They win the second set 31 to 29.

* * *

They’re almost there.

Somehow they’ve push-pulled their way into the fifth set, each play a swell receding and tugging back-and-forth, so that nobody has made any headway. It’s like treading water in a hurricane, and Kei can feel the sweat dripping down his back where his jersey hangs loose over the curve of his spine.

“One touch!” he calls out. His voice will probably be hoarse after the match.

And then Kei’s receding, gaining again, up and the net and then back away for the approach, burning legs, scan, read, signal, jump, reach, extend-

Before his feet even touch the floor, he knows something’s gone wrong. _I’m bleeding_ , he notes before shifting into recovery mode because he can’t leave the match now, not when they’re so close, and he’s feeling more alive than anything in his life because Ushijima’s spikes make the air crackle and conduct, and god if it isn’t the biggest challenge he’s ever faced. He did not come this far -- _they_ did not come this far -- to be stopped because his hand decided to fucking bleed. He can put up with this; it’s just the pinkie. If Kei holds out until the end of rotation, then maybe sports tape can compensate-

“Go to the infirmary for now!”

He didn’t even get the damn point, either.

“You better buy me some time!” Kei yells back at the court as he is escorted away. He’s sick of simply enduring, but that’s what they need to do in order to win this -- hold out until Kei can get back and lighten the strain from Daichi and Nishinoya. As prominent as Daichi’s thighs are, he knows that the burden of Ushijima’s torrential reign isn’t easy to bear, especially for as long as they have already. The five set match is absolutely brutal. The court seems to protract minutes into millenia -- granted, each block seems to remove several years from his lifespan. _Apparently the last touch took off more than just a few years -- it wanted a hand too_ , Kei thinks bitterly.

It’s a wry contrast -- Kei’s goals echoing Hinata’s for once. He recalls the beginning of the year, when he thought he and Hinata were the farthest opposites. Granted, it’s not like that belief was unfounded. The obvious things are true: short vs. tall and loud vs. quiet, but also calculation vs. impulse, trust vs. skepticism, and, until recently, passion vs. indifference.

 _We both really do want to fight until the end_ , Kei thinks and remembers. _Oh, I hardly think that you could spend over eight hours a week with someone and not find something in common with them._ His mother was correct -- she usually is -- and Kei knows she would also attest to Hinata and himself sharing another trait: stubbornness.

The trait must run in the family as well because Akiteru is standing in the gym hallway sporting a concerned expression and a pollution mask hanging around his neck. (Kei knew he was here -- he spotted him during warm-ups, actually.) “Why are you here nii-chan?”

“Why, I came to see my little brother in all his glory. That injury isn’t life threatening by the looks of it…”

“Why would it be? Anyways, I’m fine -- just utterly useless at this critical point.” Kei is bitter and frustrated, and, honestly, he’s in no mood to hide it. “Well, anyway, playing five sets is really tiring, and it’s about time I got a break already. My hand does hurt though.” Kei bites out, but his voice tapers off at the end. It’s a half-assed attempt at pretending he’s fine, and Akiteru sure as hell picks up on it.

“Even without me, my teammates will still win!“ Akiteru looks straight at Kei. “You can believe at least that much.”

Kei thinks of his own half-assed efforts in everything. He thinks of Yamaguchi sacrificing evening after evening practicing serves with Shimada. He thinks of the plastic bottles stacked in the gym, the ones that he always avoided, and of early morning practice. He thinks of “Tsukishima, come practice with us at lunch!” and of Suga and Daichi staying late to close the gym. Of Noya’s reunion and his pre-bruised knees, and of jump serves and tactics and shouts from the sidelines.

“They’ve been winning without me for a long time, Nii-chan,” Kei says, and his voice has never been warmer. They’ll win -- or at least, they can -- without Kei if they need to. The swell in his chest must be pride.

* * *

Hinata makes the final spike that skims the arms of Shiratorizawa’s libero before it flies out of bounds.

The ball slams into the ground, and there’s a slight pause in time, like the universe needed a catch-breath to comprehend that while Shiratorizawa can uproot the ground, Karasuno has managed to swing the earth back into orbit with pure will. They’ve done the improbable. It’s as if the last point is a big _fuck you_ to statistics because when has Karasuno ever been predictable?

Then the universe catches up again, and there's a moment of silence followed by surprised clapping from the majority of the stands. (Yachi, Akiteru, Saeko, and the Neighborhood Association members are all standing up, cheering their lungs dry.)

The clapping fades into white noise as exhaustion catches up with players on both sides of the court. Kei’s legs feel like they’re not even attached to his body. Hinata can’t even move; the instant the scoreboard changed, he collapsed face-down onto the floor.

“Hinata, you gotta bow,” Nishinoya says and nudges him with his foot.

“I can’t bow if I can’t stand,” Hinata groans into the floor. “I think I’m dead."

“I dunno know, Hinata -- you’re pretty sweaty for a dead person,” Nishinoya says as he and Tanaka hoist Hinata up and drag him across the gym.

When the teams have each haggardly assembled themselves on the end line, they bow. “THANK YOU FOR THE GAME!” Karasuno shouts in unison, and then everyone’s crying in realization that they’ve made it.  
  
(Kei decides to ignore the fuzziness welling up behind his eyes.)

“Tsukishima! No matter what anyone else says, you’re the MVP today!” Coach Ukai bellows. His eyes are warm as coals and his smile might split his face in two.

“I’m always the MVP, so just for today I’ll let you have the title, Tsukishima,” Tanaka chimes in with an exhausted and elated smile directed at Kei. Tanaka walks back to guzzle more water, but not without patting Kei’s back as he passes by.

* * *

The post-game high goes as fast as it comes. It’s always been like this -- the initial relief following any large accomplishment which inevitably is followed by the assessment of how well everything _actually_ went.  
  
That’s where Kei is at right now, and the bathroom seemed like the best place to assess his cumulative failure. In particular, bowled over the sink, fists clenched. A laugh vacates his lips from somewhere between his vocal chords and the lump in his throat.

 _One_ blocked, one out of countless spikes over five sets. Ushijima even managed to avoid the three man block trap at the very end. Despite their win, Ushijima still played him like a puppet. He’s too damn good -- practically pulverized Kei under his heel -- and anyone’s blind if they didn’t see that.

Yamaguchi peeks into the bathroom. “Tsukki? The awards ceremony is about to start!”

Kei grabs the ceramic ledge tighter. “ ‘How many did you miss?’ Go on, say it to me. Five sets and I only managed to stop one single spike. I’m so un-”

“I can think of a lot of words but uncool definitely isn’t one of them!” Yamaguchi shouts. “This is not the time for you to be feeling sorry for yourself! We got to Nationals! And now we have the awards ceremony.” There's a slight pause; Yamaguchi must be catching his breath. “Come out when you’re ready to join the rest of the team.”

 _He means it_ , Kei realizes. Yamaguchi, softspoken and gentle, only yells when he means it. Kei's hands unclench. “Thank you,” he breathes, but the restroom door has already swung shut.

This time, when Kei walks out of the Sendai City gym after the match, his bones ache in the most satisfying way.

* * *

The National’s court feels larger than it should. It’s the standard size for a volleyball court, all 18 by 9 meters, but there’s something about it that seems to stretch it out for miles, a wide expanse of opportunities and chances, and every centimeter means something. Karasuno eats up the future in stride as they half walk, half bounce onto the court.

“Air sonpalas!!” Hinata yells, and it’s expected as much as the following “Kageyama, come toss to me!”

Kei heads over to a corner of the court, repeatedly spiking the ball against a wall to warm up his arm. In no time, they’re being called over for official warm-ups and later to get in rotation for the game they’ve worked for since the first turbulent practice.

They’re on the court and everything has blurred out, or sharpened, really, during the frenzy so that it’s just the ball and “jump now” and his own pulse, reflexes, timing, angles, the ball slamming into his hand, yet stopping nonetheless. It’s deafening, and the loudest thing he’s heard all at once.

There’s a shrill whistle and hand gesture from the referee, and then the chaos begins again, but it’s different. It’s a flurry of black and orange and shouting, too much shouting and physical contact, but it’s warm and welcome.

Hinata enthusiastically pats his back and yells, “Great block, Tsukishima,” and Kei shrugs it off like it’s nothing, but they know.

Nishinoya’s nod from the back row knows -- Daichi’s firm clasp on his shoulder knows -- Yamaguchi’s soft but sure remark about how he’s proud of Kei knows. They all know that it’s not insignificant, and Kei hasn’t been this happy in a long time.


End file.
